


I Know What You Smell Like

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, and a little more than pillow talk, some pillow talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 01:51:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19308211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: Crowley knows what Aziraphale smells like. Intimately.And with the end of things so near, he wonders if the angel can say the same of him.





	I Know What You Smell Like

**Author's Note:**

> \- "Something's changed."  
> \- "Oh, it's a new cologne. My barber suggested it."  
> \- "No, I--I know what you smell like."

Crowley buries his nose into his angel's hair and inhales deeply. Beside him, Aziraphale shifts beneath the covers and looses a warm puff of air on the demon's chest, which he is currently using as a pillow.

“Go to sleep,” he demands, fingers ghosting over Crowley's abdomen and curling gently over a scar on his side—a souvenir from his one (and thankfully only) run-in with Gabriel.

Bloody flaming swords.

Crowley sighs and closes his eyes briefly before opening them again and staring at the ceiling. There used to be a water spot in the corner above the bed. It's gone now. As are the people that used to live above him.

“I slept three years ago,” the demon proclaims boredly. “That's enough for one decade.”

Neither of them mention that there will probably be no more decades to come. 

“Did you dream?”

The demon hums. “Nightmares. Glorious nightmares.” Well, they _had_ been glorious. But they had _not_ been nightmares. Just wonderful thoughts of a certain blond-haired principality. 

“Pity.”

The only pity in Crowley's mind is that they've known each other for more than six millennia, and and they've only been... _this_ for such a short time. And an eternity of _this_ , whatever it is, would still not be enough. 

“You are thinking far too loudly, demon. Just say what's on your mind so the leaves in the next room will stop shivering.”

Crowley frowns. “Do you know what I smell like?”

“Like a demon,” Aziraphale says without hesitation. “Like evil.”

Crowley rolls his yellow eyes. “Well, yes, I know that bit. _Every_ demon smells evil to an angel. I'm asking...What do I smell like to _you_?”

Aziraphale shifts and centers a confused gaze on the other man. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“For Hell's sake,” Crowley hisses, lifting up to lean on one elbow and look down at the angel in frustration. “I mean, if you were in a dark room with a thousand other demons and had to rely on your sense of smell to find me...could you?”

A frown twists Aziraphale's lips, and Crowley thinks it looks wrong there on his angel's face. He smooths the lines between the other man's brows with his thumb, watching Aziraphale close his eyes and sigh deeply.

“I would hope to never be in such a situation, but if the dire occasion called for it, then...yes, I believe I could.”

“How?” Crowley pleads, his words almost desperate. “Tell me, angel. What do I smell like?”

Aziraphale snatches at the demon's wrist, running the tip of his nose along Crowley's forearm as he inhales. Crowley's lips part, and his breath catches.

“You smell like...leather car seats.”

The demon's shoulders slump. “Leather car seats? Really?”

“Like frightened house plants.” There's a humorous sheen to his eyes, and Crowley falls back against the bed with an annoyed huff.

“I'm being serious, angel.”

Aziraphale leans over the demon and presses soft kisses along his jaw. “So am I.” Crowley arches as the angel sucks hickeys into his collarbone. “You smell like summers in Rome. Like thunderstorms in Paris. Like that expensive wine you claim tastes like swill.”

“It does,” Crowley gasps as Aziraphale flicks his tongue over a sensitive nipple.

“And yet we always manage to put away at least four bottles between us.” 

Crowley, suddenly, has their positions flipped, and he shifts to settle between the angel's legs. He rocks against the man, slow and rough. “I like the flush it puts in your cheeks.” He pants against Aziraphale's lips, reveling in the little moans he pulls from the other man. They trade messy kisses until their trembling bodies succumb to pleasure. 

When they've been miracled clean and Crowley lies pressed to his sleeping angel's back, the demon allows his mind to wander. Aziraphale did not ask what he smells like. 

But if he had...

Crowley would tell him he smells like faded ink and well-preserved paper. Like cream and berries and powdered sugar. Like snowfall and the sweetest cocoa. Like a pleasant new cologne that he'll have to thank the angel's barber for.

And if they only have a few more days left to live, Crowley is going to spend every second fighting for this.

For them.

For _him_.

**Author's Note:**

> I have really fallen in love with these silly boys.


End file.
